Don’t Mess with Me by Harrison Kim

Seventeen-year-old Jackson hunched up tight against the school wall smoking and laughing to himself, waiting for the bus and coming out of a daydream about performing at Carnegie Hall.  He noticed how brightly the dandelions bloomed on the sides of the culvert; the birch leaves fluttered above them.  He stubbed out his cancer stick.  His friend Robert P. hustled up, hauling a guitar stained dark brown with linseed oil.

“Going out to Callums?” said Robert fidgeting as he stood, his black mushroom hair round his pale face.

“Going,” said Jackson.  “I’m skipping karate tonight.”

“You lack discipline,” said Robert. 

Jackson laughed and twirled his steady and strong fingers, that played piano, trumpet, and a bit of guitar, “Just a bit out of control.”

“Callum says we can practice in his cabin,” Robert stated.

He started to strum a few minor chords on his six-string.

“Practice should be fine, as long as no-one laughs at my music,” Jackson said.

He’d penned a number of original songs for piano. The last time he played in front of Robert he warned his friend “don’t laugh, man, don’t laugh this is my personal song,” and Robert didn’t even giggle because he was a true friend, that being one reason, the other reason being fear, but Jackson couldn’t be sure his friend’s mouth wasn’t twitching, holding back.  The song Jackson played to Robert was “Don’t Mess With Me.”

“Don’t mess with me/I’ve so much energy/need to use it bad/bring out the mad/whatever sets me free.

As Jackson considered these lyrics the school bus pulled in beside them.  Robert slung his guitar back into its case.  The boys moved down the bus aisle, sat sideways, feet up on the back seat.

Up over Kault Hill Jackson peered down at the lake and the new green that blotched over the tops of the trees below.

“That’s another spring,” he told Robert, “I’m gonna write a song about it.”

Robert fiddled with his guitar. “The F chord is the hardest, down the end of the neck,” he continued, his wrist and the end of his instrument about an inch from Jackson’s nose.

“I’m trying to look at the trees, man,” said Jackson.

Robert stopped playing.  “Callum said he bought a new drum set. I think his dad left him some money.”

Their friend Callum Kosk lived with his Mom, in a trailer on the side of a hill above a chicken farm.  He quit school after his Dad died; most of his time now he played the drums.

“Yeah, his dad had a big final stroke,” Robert explained. “I remember that guy could see the funny side of everything.”

The bus stopped. Jackson followed the girl who stepped out ahead of him.  She was not bad looking.

“At the end, could his dad go to the bathroom by himself?” Jackson asked.

Robert shrugged. “You got me there.”

Jackson swung the black case in which lay his gold-coloured trumpet. The two teenagers walked up a steep hill to the Kosks.

“Kinda stinks up here,” Jackson noted, and Robert pointed down the hill at a series of buildings in the hollow below, “Chicken farm.”

 Mrs. Kosk’s face appeared at her trailer window. “Your friends are here, Callum!”

As they came closer, Jackson saw her thin face lined with a million wrinkles.

“Come on in,” she said.  “Callum’s told me a lot about you.”

The three boys sat around the dining room table, while Mrs. Kosk poured some warm greenish liquid into mugs.  “Home made,” she said.

Callum, a chipmunk faced young man with a high hairline, took a cloth measuring stick out of his pocket and showed his friends how far back from his forehead mole his hairline had receded.

“Just in the past three weeks,” he said. “A couple of inches.”

“You look pretty much the same with the wider scalp,” Robert remarked.

“That god damn chicken farm stench is driving me nuts,” Callum told them.

“Yeah, it stinks,” Jackson agreed.

Mrs. Kosk thrust a jar of molasses in front of them. “This stuff’s not bad in the dandelion tea.” Her fingers trembled. “Would you like some corn on the cob?”

“I would prefer real sugar,” said Callum. “Think I’m gonna have to go out and get myself a job.”

Jackson looked up, glimpsed a face at the window.  It was a thin, hollow face wearing black glasses.

“What’s that?” he pointed.

The face disappeared.

“Was it bony and pinched looking?” Callum asked.

Jackson nodded.  Callum made a face.

“That’s one of the Cloutiers.  They’re new here, the dad’s a farmhand on the chicken ranch. They like to stand in the window and watch us eat.” Callum jabbed towards the window with both index fingers.  “His name’s Walsh.  His sister Evie is probably right behind him.  Walsh’s got one of those meatlips.”

Callum made a giant “U” with his index finger just below his mouth.

“What’s a meatlip?” asked Robert.

“You’ll see in a minute,” said Callum.

 Mrs. Kosk rushed outside.

“Mr. Cloutier yells at his kids all the time” Callum continued.  “Crazy short little guy.”

“Why do you call him Mister?” Jackson asked.

Mrs. Kosk came back, the two kids right behind her.

“You should have some corn,” she told Walsh, a gangly kid with a big, flat face, wearing an open shirt with no buttons and a stained blue vest underneath. Evie sidled in, Jackson noticed her cut offs with the top fastener undone. She could have been sixteen.  She sat across from Jackson and crossed her legs.

Jackson stared at his dandelion tea, which turned greener, then a kind of orange-yellow as the sunlight wavered through the window.  He glanced up. 

“Whatchew looking at?” Evie said.

“I don’t think you’re wearing earrings,” Jackson stared over her head, out the window beside her.  He could see right across the valley.

Evie smiled.  “You gonna buy me a pair?”

She held two fingers to her right ear and cocked her chin forward.

“Yeah. Two great big ones,” Jackson said.

Mrs. Kosk grabbed some pickup tongs and pulled a steaming corncob out of the saucepan. Walsh grabbed it with his bare hands.  He didn’t remove his mouth from his food until half of the cob lay bare.

“Here’s some butter,” said Robert. “It’s better with butter.”

Walsh stuck out his finger and scooped a chunk into his mouth.

Jackson saw the sizeable growth hanging from the boy’s bottom lip, which shone with the butter.

Evie gave Jackson a flat stare.  “I like your sideburns,” she said.

Callum stuffed his cloth measuring tape in his back pocket. “Come on guys, let’s go up to the cabin and play some tunes.”

Mrs. Kosk thrust forward a tray full of what looked like green tarts.  “Take some of these.”

Evie popped a tart in her mouth and flicked up her tongue.

Callum and Robert grabbed a few pastries and headed outside.  The cabin sat up from the Kosk trailer, supported by wooden blocks. An old piano filled most of one corner.  Several card tables and chairs sat in the other, a dusty green couch in the middle.

“Where’s your new drum set, Callum?” Robert asked.

“I merely have the snare today,” Callum picked two sticks off the floor, sat on a small orange plastic stool and banged out a short percussion solo. 

“You hit hard,” said Jackson.

“Do those kids come over every day?” Robert asked, glancing behind him.

“Mom’s kinda adopted them,” said Callum.  “Now that my dad’s not around.”

 Evie opened the cabin door, Walsh right behind her, working away at his corn cob.

The girl plunked herself down in the couch across from Jackson and pulled her bare foot up over her other leg.

Jackson had already seated himself at the piano.  He tinkled the ivories a bit and looked back at Evie as Robert yanked his guitar out of its case.

“Not a bad sound,” Jackson stated.

He stood up and turned on the light above him. It shone a dull blue.

Walsh stood in the doorway, sniffed and said “This place smells like my mattress.”

“Can you play “Wipeout?” Evie leaned back into the armchair, arms behind her head.  “I want to hear “Wipeout.”

Jackson could see the shape of those arms, they looked pretty thin.

Callum held a key.  He opened one of the stained brown cupboards and drew out a bottle.

“Lemon Gin,” he said.  “Except for Walsh.  He’s too damn young.”

Robert pulled his guitar out.  He fastened some Scotch Tape over the fingertips of his left hand. “My skin bleeds easy,” he explained.

Callum took a big swig of the lemon gin and handed the bottle to Robert, whose fingers stuck to the glass for a moment.  Robert took a light swig and passed to Jackson.

“Thanks,” said Jackson.

He swallowed big. Evie reached forward.

“Walsh is too damn young,” she shouted, raising the bottle to her lips, and tipping her head back.  Her blonde hair fell behind her and Jackson noticed her throat, smooth and brown.

He started to play his song “Don’t Mess With Me.” 

“What key is that in?” Robert asked.

Jackson kept playing, head down to the keys.  Callum tapped his snare with the brushes.

“I’ve heard that before somewhere,” said Evie. “Are there any words?”
“Don’t laugh if I say the words,” Jackson told her.

“They’ll probably make me cry,” she said, moving her chair forward.  “But I don’t cry.”

The lemon gin went round again as Jackson played.  After a few minutes, Robert started thrumming a bass line on one string, and Callum hit the snare.  The three boys kept with the riff, over and over.  Then Jackson changed the rhythm and everyone followed some more.  Walsh sat on the couch, eating from a plate of green tarts.  Evie stood up and kicked her legs back and forth.  “Ridin’ on the City of New Orleans,” she sang.  “Penny a point and no-one keepin’ score.”

She had not a bad voice.

“Those aren’t the lyrics,” shouted Callum.

Evie held on to the gin bottle and the back of Jackson’s piano chair and kept singing.  Jackson started to play the song about New Orleans Evie referred to, Callum kept up with the brushes, while staring over at Walsh, who sat on the couch chewing.

Evie nudged Jackson with her hips, reached over and pounded a few of the black keys.  It didn’t sound too good.  She gave off an aroma like that chicken farm scent he first detected right off the bus but this time it didn’t seem so offensive. He finished off the gin.

“Play these two keys,” he said.  “This one once, the other one three times.”

She knelt down, face close to the piano, and pounded the instrument.  She could keep up a beat.

Jackson played a melody to her rhythm until she stopped and tapped her fingers across his back.

“Someone’s gonna buy me some ear rings,” she said. She raised her head and her hair brushed his face. 

“Daddy’ll be mad,” said Walsh.   He looked down at his empty plate. “We should get home.”

Evie flopped over to the couch and looked out the window.   Jackson looked too. The sun glowed low and red across the valley.

“I’m kinda woozy. Piano guy, could you be my escort?” she asked, putting on her black and white runners with the holes in the sides.

“Okay,” Jackson said.

Robert sat at the table taking the tape off the ends of his fingers.

“It’s not dark yet,” said Callum, tapping his drumsticks together and looking sideways at Evie.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” Jackson told him.

Jackson was outside before Evie.  She paused at the door and Jackson caught her as she

stepped down.  She laughed and pushed him away, ran down the pine needle covered slope to the road. Walsh walked close to Jackson as they both moved after her.  She crossed the road and held onto a post by the barbed wire fence. 

“How am I supposed to get through this?” she asked.

Jackson smelled alcohol as she moved closer to him.  Maybe she’d spilled some on her cutoffs. He lifted up one strand of the wire.

“Go under here,” Jackson said.

Jackson rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth.  It was pretty arid in there. Evie bent her head and lifted her leg through the gap as he continued holding the wire.  She planted her foot on the other side of the fence, looked up at him and lifted her other leg, Jackson bent the wire further down.

“You’re a strong guy,” she said. “I like that.”

She pushed her hair out of the way and shimmied through the barbed wire gap, the full side of her face and thigh outlined against the dusk.  She stood up, and almost fell over, then dropped anyway, rolled on her back and leaped up again, laughing. 

“Why are we going into the field?” asked Walsh.

“You can take the road,” said Evie.

“Take the road,” said Jackson.

“I’m telling dad where you are!” Walsh yelled.

He took off at a run.

“He’s not even home,” Evie’s hair shone silver in the twilight.

Stridulations of crickets and grasshoppers rose from the grass and the darkness beyond.  Evie swayed in the field.

“Dancing to the bug beat,” she called. She moved backwards down the slope.  “Come on!”

Jackson breathed in the damp smell of the night, moved to the fencepost, heaved himself up over the shimmery wires and down the other side like his body was a feather.

Evie staggered and fell into Jackson as he caught up, held her from falling.  She gave off warmth and didn’t weigh a thing, his hands moved up all under her shirt, as she put her tongue in his ear, and they both sank to the ground.  He rolled on top of her. He pushed his hands to her cut offs and she let him. They kissed, didn’t stop, Evie giggling as she touched him.

 “You can’t keep in in,” she sang, “you gotta let it out,” and he did, pushed his hand up and along the arc of Evie’s back, and she bent and curved into him. He’d been high since the cabin when Evie tapped her hand across his back.  It took very little extra to send him over that barbed wire fence.  He tumbled and turned with Evie, there in the grass field with just the slightest glimpse of light remaining.  When he moved onto his side the stars fell into view.

“What would be really nice,” Evie said, lying over him, her face inches from his, “Is earrings. You said you’d get me some.”

Jackson considered this.  He thought it might be expensive.

Someone else stood behind her, a head against the darkness.  “I thought Walsh went round the road,” Jackson called.  “Is that you, Walsh?”

“It’s just a shadow” Evie told him.

A voice came out of that darkness.  “You get up you little bitch.”

A pair of hands grabbed Evie’s shoulders, she twisted and rolled, Jackson saw the flash of her bare back as she jumped away. A small figure not much taller than she fell on Jackson, hit him in the jaw, first one side, then the other.  Jackson came totally awake, with a ringing through his head.  The creature loomed above him, mouth tight, slapping him again.  Jackson felt a surge of energy from each hit.  This is what it all led up to, the bus ride after a long school day, the music session in the cabin, the tippling of the lemon gin, the walk to the field with Evie.  He knew his purpose would come into focus, sooner or later.  His song lyrics came to him through the ringing from the slaps. “I’ve so much energy, need to use it bad.”

He punched under his assailant’s bearded chin, into the throat with the heel of his hand, then as the head snapped back; he hit it a few more times. The man’s long hair whipped about his face and mouth as he tumbled off Jackson, coughing, then scrambled back, scratched the boy across the face.  Jackson rolled, grabbed the man’s arms, and pinned them to the ground.  A hollow eyed face with a hawk nose lay below him. The man’s legs kicked up.  Jackson hit the face with his forehead.  The nose began to bleed.

“Don’t mess with me,” Jackson yelled.

The man yelled louder, his mouth a hole under the sky, emitting a long banshee wail, it matched the other screaming, then came Evie’s voice, “Leave him alone!” although who she was talking to was unclear to Jackson, who pushed his hand over the man’s mouth and held it there.  He felt teeth biting down, but he kept the hand secure, though he wanted to yell.  The screaming stopped with a sigh and Jackson pushed himself up, felt dizzy, then strong again, and stepped away.  The man lay on his back in the darkness.

“My dad’s crazy,” Jackson heard Evie say.  “Maybe you killed him.”

“I know who it is,” he said.

“You did it,” Evie had a half-smile.  “You were crazier.”

“I’ve got to get back over the fence,” said Jackson.  

He thought he saw the dad move, his limbs white and thin, there under the stars.

“It’s you and me,” said Evie, pacing up and down, running her hands through her hair.  “We’ll be together now.”

Jackson stood staring at the fir trees, their black triangles at bottom of the slope.  Something was missing, yes, it was the grasshoppers and crickets, quiet with complete nightfall.  From out of this silence, he heard a moaning sound. .

“What do we do?” he heard Evie’s voice cry out.  “If it’s you and me, what are we going to do?”

Harrison Kim

Image: Pixabay.com – Dark picture of hands strumming a guitar